


Find Your Own Way Home

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Domestic, M/M, Porn, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's job takes him around the world, and eventually all he wants is a place to call home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Your Own Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this is an AU based on a plot line from another movie. (See my End Notes for spoilers.)
> 
> Secondly, I feel like I should mention that I started writing this fic in late 2010, (probably after reading a kink meme prompt, but I can't remember it now), and because I fail at life and because this is one of the longest fics I've ever attempted to write, of course I got distracted by about 10 other fics along the way. But here it is, finally!
> 
> Fuck, I'm glad it's done.

Arthur has a life in Los Angeles, and it suits him. A few close friends, a job that he's good at. The best at, actually. He's ruthlessly efficient with research, he has an uncanny ability to search out flaws in a plan, and call other people out on their shit, and most importantly, he'll do whatever it takes to get a job done. Even when it's extremely fucking inconvenient. Like now.

"So when you say that you need me to move to London for three months--" he starts out, frowning over at Dom.

Dom leans forward, elbows braced on his desk, rubbing at his forehead. "They need you in the London office."

Arthur tips his head thoughtfully. "They finally got tired of Nash's shoddy workmanship?" The last Arthur heard, the London office's lead architect, Nash, has been walking a thin line for some time. He goes for the shortcuts instead of putting in the work, and if he can pin the blame for his failures on his co-workers, he will. 

"How'd you guess?" Dom asks wryly. "He's been terminated. They could really use your expertise over there." Dom adds, probably meaning it to sound persuasive. And for good reason. Arthur just got back from a long-term overseas jaunt in Japan yesterday. He's wrung-out and tired of it all; jetlag, hotels, room service. But yesterday he'd had Dom's assurance that he would be staying in Los Angeles for the foreseeable future. Apparently, today is a brand new day.

"What happened to cutting back on the overseas assignments?" Arthur groans miserably, sinking down in his chair and giving Dom a glare.

"It's just three months. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. After that, you're done, I promise." Dom says, wincing because as well as being Arthur's boss, he's also a friend; probably Arthur's best friend if he thinks about it. And even in college, when they'd first met, Dom was all big dreams and romanticism mixed with tenacity and tunnel-vision. He'd wanted to start his own architecture and consulting firm, and he'd done it. And because they're friends, Arthur has given the past 10 years of his life to growing this company; through the birth of Dom's kids, through the death of Dom's wife, Mal. But it's not like their friendship stops Dom from using Arthur's loyalty and a susceptibility to flattery against him. Which is how Arthur found himself living out of a suitcase in Trieste, Tokyo, and Abu Dhabi for the greater part of the last year. 

"When would I need to leave?" Arthur asks, resigned to it now.

Dom's eyes shift guiltily. "Within the week."

Arthur owns a house in Santa Monica. It's all classic lines, an open floor plan, with dark-stained woods and floor to ceiling windows. He hasn't spent more than five consecutive nights there since he bought it. He's barely even moved in, the majority of the rooms stand empty, with bare walls and only the bare minimum of furnishings.

He looks around Dom's office; at the plans messily piled in front of him, the scribbled notes on a whiteboard, the half-built models covering every available surface. And Arthur sighs, tilting his chair back on two legs. His life would suit him. When he eventually got to live it.

"Three months," he says adamantly. "And then I'm done."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He lands in Heathrow four days later.

"So you have the keys to both the house and the car, and the number to reach me in Mombasa." Yusuf says, as he steps out of the door. Arthur's standing in a cottage in a village 35 kilometers outside of London. Dom had offered to put him up in the hotel of his choice, but Arthur drew the line at another extended hotel stay. He hadn't been able to lease anything decent on short notice so the compromise was this. House-sitting for the next three months for someone that Dom had met while working overseas. The cottage has a kind of chaotic, jumbled charm to it that suits Yusuf, the man who Arthur is renting it from, with its overstuffed couches, stone fireplaces, and frosted windowpanes.

Arthur nods, hanging up his wool coat on the coat rack by the door. "Yeah. Thanks, Yusuf. I appreciate it." And he does. More than three rooms at his disposal. A space to make his own meals. The chance to unpack his clothes, hang them up in a closet. 

It isn't home, but it's closer.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Arthur works 14 hour shifts at the firm because the London office is disorganized and unprepared. He spends his days with half-assed Excel spreadsheets, tracking down overdue design proposals and his nights reading increasingly frantic emails from Dom and investors. If he were being nice, Arthur would say that it's tedious. But Arthur isn't in the mood for nice and it's probably more accurate to say that it's monotonous as fuck.

"Did you need anything else, Arthur?" Harriet, his temporary assistant, ducks into his office to ask. Arthur looks up from where he's jotting down notes at his borrowed desk and shakes his head.

"I'm thinking that that was the last of it. Although if you happen to see Hendricks on your way out, send him in here." 

She smiles cautiously, like she isn't sure that she should, like she might not be allowed to. "Right. Until tomorrow then," she says as she quickly backs out. 

Arthur doesn't let her reaction bother him, he's used to it on these kinds of jobs. It's obvious that the management resents his presence and the lower tier employees are worried that restructuring will cost them their jobs. It isn't the best situation for making friends.

Arthur buckles down and manages to make enough progress to leave work a little after nine, finally heading back to the cottage. He makes pasta for dinner, flips through an old issue of GQ magazine that he found on one of Yusuf's selves, tries to use Yusuf's chemistry set of a coffee maker to brew himself a cup of coffee and ends up simply microwaving a cup of hot water and pouring it over the grounds. At the very least, he thinks as he considers the contents of his cup, it's warm caffeine. 

This is pretty good, the way Arthur figures it, as he settles into a chair with his magazine and mug. And even if it's a little dull, it's only three months, Arthur can do three months anywhere, no problem. So he'll be bored. It's not like he's lonely or anything, not exactly. He just doesn't have friends in London, hasn't had the time or energy to go anywhere and meet anyone since he got into town. 

That's probably why he isn't expecting the knock on the cottage door at half past two in the morning. 

The knock gets him out of his chair, checking his watch with an unfocused double-take. And it really is as late as Arthur thought it was, which is probably why Arthur doesn't consider the sensibility of opening the door. He just opens it. And finds a man on his front step. A ridiculously attractive man, so Arthur's type physically that Arthur pauses for a moment to consider the idea that he might actually have fallen asleep and that this is a dream. Broad shoulders and muscular thighs, expressive blue eyes, and a mouth that will hopefully feature in all of his future dreams. The man tilts his head, gaze sliding over Arthur's body in a slow, overt manner.

"You're not Yusuf," he says finally, that mouth quirking into a flirtatious grin. 

Arthur blinks, and snaps out of his stupor long enough to reply, "No, I'm Arthur. Who are you?"

"I'm Eames," he says, edging around Arthur's position in the doorway, to gain entrance into the cottage. "And you're too well-dressed for a house-breaker." He strips off his trench coat, a loose, casually sexual movement that Arthur can't help but respond to.

Arthur pauses briefly, his fingers curled around the doorknob and his eyes reflexively lingering on the appealing curve of Eames' backside, before deciding that he could probably afford to offer a little hospitality to one of Yusuf's friends. He shuts the door again, following Eames into the sitting room. "Yusuf's in Mombasa. I'm house-sitting for him."

"Can I have some of that?" Eames nods to the mug in Arthur's hand, flopping haphazardly onto one of Yusuf's plump couches. 

Arthur looks down at his cup of coffee as though it's the first time he's seen it. "Yeah, why not?" He says, still a bit off-kilter and bemused, going to fetch Eames a cup of his own. He takes his time, searching for a mug and microwaving the coffee, before going back to his unexpected guest.

"Thank you, darling. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, you are a lifesaver." Eames says warmly as he accepts the offered mug, giving a pleased sigh and a lopsided smile as he wraps his hands around it.

Arthur frowns at him, suspicion gathering slowly, and probably a little too late. "You're drunk," he says, warily. It's a mostly a guess because Eames isn't giving much away. The slight flush to his cheeks could have been put down to the cold, but there's something about the wholly careless way he slouches against the couch cushions, and a slackness to his mouth that betrays him.

"Perhaps a bit," Eames admits, beaming up at Arthur as he sets his coffee down on the side table. In spite of himself, Arthur can't help but smile back, reluctantly charmed. 

"And you're lovely," Eames adds, his eyes sliding down Arthur's body again, his good cheer transmuting seamlessly into undisguised appreciation. Eames manages to stand up readily enough, moving into Arthur's space, Arthur wondering where this is going. The shape of Eames' body is imposing at this distance, his arms huge, the shadow of a tattoo visible at the open v at the collar of his gray henley. He's slightly shorter than Arthur but somehow he manages to loom over him as he comes in close, staring at Arthur's mouth.

"Eames--" Arthur starts to say, and the plan was to tell him to back off. Then Eames leans in and seals their mouths together, the first dry brush of his lips turning into something warm and clinging. 

Arthur doesn't really have an excuse for why he kisses back. Except that maybe that it's been too long since he's had this, the solid press of someone else's body against his, firm hands at his hips, a soft mouth opening over his. They go slow, and that's the fun part of doing this with someone new, learning their responses, what makes Eames press in harder and sigh, what makes Arthur shudder and clutch at Eames' back. Eames tastes like expensive whiskey and cheap cigarettes when Arthur licks past his lips. Arthur chases the taste with his tongue, all along the roof of Eames' mouth, over the front of slightly crooked teeth. 

It feels good, and when they break apart, panting, and Eames tugs at his waist, pulling him forward and over to the couch, Arthur lets him, easy as that. It's opportunistic maybe, but, Arthur thinks, Eames was practically delivered to his doorstep, exciting and amazingly hot. Maybe Arthur does want to get into a sexy stranger's pants tonight, why the fuck not?

"Arthur," Eames murmurs, and the rough scrape of his accent over his name is enough to make Arthur go half-hard, and draw him back in again for another bruising kiss. 

"Eames, you should--" Arthur mumbles against Eames' mouth, still trading quick, open-mouth kisses with him, not quite knowing how he was going to finish that sentence. Come upstairs with me, bend me over the couch, fuck me against the wall. And if Eames hadn't chosen that exact moment to trip over his own feet, maybe one of those options might have actually happened. 

Arthur disentangles from their embrace, sighing pointedly as Eames frowns down at his offending feet. Gorgeous and drunk off his ass, that's just Arthur's luck. He gives Eames a small shove, unbalancing him over on his ass, where he lands on the couch with a startled laugh.

"Finish your coffee, and then you're leaving," Arthur says over his shoulder, brusque and maybe just mildly disappointed, as he heads back into the kitchen. He rinses out his mug, sets it in the dish strainer. He gives it about five minutes before he walks back into the sitting room consoling himself with the fact that Eames probably wouldn't have been able to get it up anyway. 

Eames is right where Arthur left him when he gets back, the coffee mug empty and set on the coffee table in front of him. Except that he's now slumped over on the couch, snoring softly. 

"Fuck," Arthur says, with fervor. Eames makes a quiet snuffling sound in response, burying his face deeper into a pillow.

Arthur studies him for a second before unfolding an afghan from the back of one of Yusuf's chairs and throwing it over the top of him. He finally heads to bed then, slightly surprised with himself. He should have woken Eames up, gotten rid off him. But he hadn't.

In the brief moments between when he crawls under the sheets and before he falls asleep, Arthur decides that there's really only one way to rationalize his choice to let Eames stay.

It really was just that good of a kiss.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Arthur developed his morning routine freshman year at UCLA, living on his own for the first time, and he doesn't deviate from it, even on a lazy Saturday morning like today. He has it refined to a science now, to maximize his efficiency and sharpen his focus to get him through the rest of the day's tasks. He gets up at six every morning, and makes himself a pot coffee. After that first crucial cup, he works out for an hour. Here in London, only as much as he can considering Yusuf's lack of equipment and the weather. Then he takes a shower, drinks more coffee, and eats a light breakfast. 

He makes his way downstairs after he wakes up, his eyes not entirely open yet, walking straight to the kitchen.

Eames is awake and standing there, obviously waiting for him, looking disturbingly fresh and cheery, smiling lightly at Arthur.

There's Arthur's morning routine, blown to hell first thing. But, he notes quickly, Eames had figured out Yusuf's impossibly complicated coffeemaker, and there's already coffee brewing. He opens the cabinet that holds the mugs, digs two out, handing one to Eames, who takes it with a surprised, grateful expression, then clears his throat. "I should most likely apologize. Yusuf lets me kip on his couch when I've been drinking. I didn't realize he was out of town."

"It wasn't a big deal." Arthur's willing to be generous now that caffeine's in sight. He pours their coffee, inhaling the bitter scent with pleasure, taking a small sip, and then a bracing gulp. It's brewed strong, just the way he likes it, Arthur notes approvingly.

"I appreciate the fact that you didn't set me out into the cold. Especially after I kissed you," Eames adds. He's watching Arthur over the rim of his mug, and if he's looking for a reaction from Arthur, he's out of luck.

"It wasn't a big deal," he repeats calmly.

If possible, Eames' smile only gets bigger as the jab registers. "Flatterer." Eames sets his mug aside and rests that hand on his hip, drawing Arthur's attention to the inviting, open sprawl of his body propped against the kitchen counter. It's not bad as far as wake-ups go, the resurging jolt of interest sparking through Arthur's system. "So if I were to kiss you again?" Eames lifts an eyebrow, enticing and easy. It might be an act, over-confidence to make up for the fact that he had been passed out drunk on Arthur's couch only a few hours ago. But, damn him, it's working. 

Arthur sets his coffee down, can feel his dimples making a grudging appearance as he crosses into Eames' space, pressing him back against cool marble.

"It wouldn't be a big deal," Arthur says, and still smiling, he allows Eames to kiss him again.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

They make their way up to Arthur's bedroom ("Yusuf's bedroom," Eames notes with unholy glee, snooping around a bit, although he gains his focus back quickly enough once Arthur is naked) and onto Arthur's bed. They pick up where they left off the night before, only now Arthur can be sure that the slow, urgent kissing is going somewhere, now that he has Eames unclothed and spread out over Arthur's sheets. Naked, Eames' body is predictably impressive, bulky and thick.

"I'm going to have to send a thank you card to Yusuf," Arthur says stupidly, and he grins wryly when Eames laughs at him but he can't help but feel lucky. He can't get enough of staring at the muscles in Eames' chest and arms, the wide bands of spiraling tribal tattoos in black ink and the Union Jack stark against his tanned skin. 

"Come here, then," Eames says, not letting him waste much more time on looking, hauling him up bodily to sit atop of Eames' broad thighs. Arthur isn't going to lie, as embarrassed as he is by that part of him that goes light-headed over a big, strong guy manhandling him, he loves it, goes a little crazy for it, splaying his knees and rocking forward, a lithe, hungry movement that has their cocks dragging together, a soft, sweet friction.

Arthur has always been a sexual person. He likes sex, making another person feel good, letting them learn how to return the favor. And Eames is a quick study, playing with Arthur's nipples, rolling them between his fingers, giving them a little tug as their hips buck together restlessly, a smooth grind, not too hard or fast, not yet. It's effortlessly, gorgeously good as Eames slides a hand up to cup Arthur's jaw, guiding him forward until his mouth meet Eames', and they kiss, wet and long. Eventually Arthur lets up enough to dig his teeth into Eames' plush bottom lip, savoring the harsh little noise that Eames makes, swallowing it up.

Arthur pulls back, grinning down at Eames. "Fuck, you're hot," he laughs, Eames going satisfyingly pink-cheeked under him. Arthur bends over to trace the flush as it spreads down the heated skin at side of Eames' neck, his pulse battering hard against Arthur's lips.

"Likewise," Eames says, and he makes a little appreciative noise as they rut against each other, spurring the other on beyond retaining any semblance of control, their cocks both fully hard and leaking against their stomachs, the motion becoming more insistent and erratic. 

"As immensely enjoyable as this is," Eames growls out then, his large hands rubbing down the length of Arthur's thighs, making Arthur twitch as they edge closer and closer to his cock. "I want to make you come," he says, Arthur emitting a deep groan, because fuck, that's all he wants too. 

"Just -- like this," Arthur says, bracing himself over Eames with one hand on the mattress next to them, wrapping the other around both of their cocks. He jerks them off together, just like that, their cocks held close in his hand, pulsing and wet. It isn't long until Eames stiffens underneath him, his breath hitching, and comes, semen streaking across Arthur's wrist, adding to the sticky mess of his hand. Arthur immediately loosens his fingers, but he doesn't let go or slow his quick strokes, asking, "Is this okay?"

Eames nods, licks his lips shiny. "Don't stop," he says, even though it must be painful, his cock tender and over-sensitized. Eames slots his own fingers in between Arthur's, tightening his grip around them both, arousing and perfect. It's too good to last, it only takes those few brief pulls of Eames' hand and Arthur's balls tighten and he's shuddering through his orgasm, the sensation overwhelming his senses, deafening and blinding, his come spilling out between their fingers to puddle on Eames' stomach. 

Afterwards they both decisively use the top sheet to wipe off, but Arthur can't complain. At least he hadn't showered yet. 

"Come here," Eames murmurs to him again, his hands at Arthur's back coaxing Arthur down to lie full-length on top of him, tilting Arthur's face up to kiss him, affectionate and lazy, the sweetness of it somehow suiting the mood of sloppy morning sex. "How long did you say you were in London for?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Arthur says, stretching languidly, fitting himself neatly against Eames' body, automatically snuggling in.

Eames narrows his eyes at him, nudging a finger into his side. "Feel free to return the favor presently," he prompts him, sarcasm heavy, the effect somewhat ruined by the careful way he notices that Arthur has begun to shiver as his heart rate settles and flips a quilt up over them both. 

Arthur rests there, tucked into Eames' warmth, and curls his fingers into the damp hair at the nape of Eames' neck, feeling Eames' breath push out against his ribs, a slow, steady rhythm. "Three months," he answers finally, and it is a kind of compliment to Eames that Arthur wants this again, that it was that good.

Eames chuckles, his eyes closed now, his laugh a soft exhale against Arthur's temple. "I'm going to want to fuck you in every room of this house at least twice, fair warning." 

It sounds dauntingly like a deal being sealed, but Arthur finds that he's looking forward to it, a shiver racing down his spine. "Fair enough," he says. There's a shaft a daylight peeking through one of the windows, it's past time to get up and get on with the day. Arthur's just going to give it a minute longer.

But then Arthur's body resolves the matter for him, pulling him down neatly into sleep.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When Arthur steps into his shower three hours later it's after being woken up by the domestic and familiar sound of someone moving around downstairs, floorboards creaking and a tea kettle hissing. The shower floor is still wet from where Eames must have washed up already when Arthur climbs in, ready to rinse off the scent of sweat and sex off of his skin. He finds more than one of these little signs of someone else's presence in the house; Eames' damp towel in the hamper, Arthur's clothes folded on the chest at the foot of the bed. Arthur normally enjoys his privacy, but it's not entirely unpleasant to have company, he thinks after he's toweled off from his shower and dressed again. 

When he makes his way downstairs he finds Eames settled in at his kitchen table with a mug of tea and a newspaper, making himself at home. "You sure you don't need to be getting back to your place?" Arthur asks wryly, taking in the sight from the doorway. 

A look passes over Eames' face that Arthur doesn't know how to interpret, and it's gone before he can try. "I'm sure I could be persuaded to stay. Let me buy you to lunch," he offers, his cajoling tone at odds with his flippant smirk.

Arthur frowns doubtfully back at him. He wants to say no; it's kind of his default answer in cases like these, and he doesn't exactly see the point in prolonging the inevitable. Except that it's probably a bad idea to refuse to share a simple meal with someone he still wants to fuck again eventually. Besides, he's starving. He sighs. "Okay." 

One lunch. How unbearable could it be?

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

They end up in a little pub down the lane from Arthur's cottage, the one Eames had been at the night before, and Eames keeps his jacket buttoned up over the wrinkled mess of his shirt so that he won't offend Arthur's sartorial sensibilities. They sit at back table, and Eames points out bits of local color, hands out minutiae about bar patrons, has a million anecdotes. All impersonal and superficial, just the way Arthur likes it. And it's nice. Easier than Arthur expected it to be, considering they're working on 12 hours acquaintance, most of which they both spent asleep.

It's only once they have the sandwiches they ordered that Eames starts in with the expected annoying crap. "Tell me about your life in America." 

"Why?" Arthur grimaces. He hates polite chit-chat, the getting to know you bullshit. It's so fake, like you can't just have sex with someone because you like their body anymore. You have to show in interest in their lives too or else you're an asshole.

"Because I want to know you," Eames says, leaning in close to Arthur over the table, holding his gaze. Arthur would have rolled his eyes, except that Eames actually seems sincere, not like he's pulling a line on Arthur, so he shrugs and gives him the basics.

"I don't have much of a life in America right now. I have my job. My friends are my co-workers. And I travel overseas a lot, for work."

Eames waits, then when Arthur doesn't continue on, shakes his head. "That's very sad."

Arthur resists the urge to shrug again. He feels slightly defensive now, like Eames is judging him and finding him lacking, another reason why he doesn't normally do this. "I wouldn't say so."

"That's why it's sad." Eames doesn't say it with pity, but Arthur can't help but bristle a little.

"What about you? Are you living your dream?" Arthur asks, turning the tables, ignoring that small part of himself that is honestly curious.

Eames sits back in his seat, and the expression on his face is distant, thoughtful, as though he has to fully consider the question first before he gives his answer. "There was a time in my 20s when I was bound for a glamorous life of crime. And then my life took a different path. But yes. My life is what I want it to be," he starts out, slow and careful. Then he moves in again, sets his hand over Arthur's on the table and his smile is a house fire, small and devastating. "Right now, life couldn't be better."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Arthur was planning on going their separate ways after lunch, maybe hooking up again later in the week if he has time. He signals the waiter, grudgingly asking Eames, "Did you want to get dessert?", and hopes that they can just get the check instead.

Eames laughs, the kind of laugh that promises mischief and mayhem, as he catches Arthur's eye, licking his lips. "I'd much rather be sucking your cock."

Well then, Arthur thinks. Change of plans.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Eames goes back to the cottage with him that afternoon and spends the night there again. He does the same the next night, and the night after that. In fact, with the exception of long hours at his job, Eames ends up spending most of his time at the cottage with Arthur. 

They have sex, of course. Lots of sex, great sex, in every room of the cottage. More than twice because there aren't that many rooms. Arthur's almost gotten used to the constant presence of stubble burn and muscle strain.

And between bouts of increasingly gymnastic and amazing sex, they hang out. It's the normal stuff, like watching reruns of Law and Order in bed, making dinner, going out for drinks. Nothing that Arthur couldn't have done on his own, but he's man enough to admit that all of it's better with company. Having Eames around is almost like a friendship, if you could have sex with your friends. And friendship is something that Arthur has been missing since he left Los Angeles without ever really acknowledging it to himself. So yeah, maybe he hasn't been lonely all this time but he has been alone. It's nice now, is all, having someone to talk to, having someone there, someone who wants to be with him.

So somewhat against his will, Arthur is actually having fun, and he owes it to Eames.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

It's pouring rain when Arthur leaves work for the night, and his clothes are soaked through by the time he gets back to the cottage, water sloshing in his shoes as he sets them by the front door and goes to find Eames. 

He's in the kitchen, carefully measuring out coffee grounds for his part in their nightly routine. They figured out early on that Eames is better with the coffeemaker, and that Arthur is easier to live with when he has caffeine in him. Arthur collapses with a wet splat into one of the kitchen chairs under Eames' amused gaze. "Rainy day blues, darling?" he asks, tossing Arthur a hand towel as an afterthought.

Arthur rubs it over his face and hair, mopping himself up as best he can, and glances down at himself where he's doing his best drowned rat impersonation and up at Eames again, unconcerned. "I grew up in Seattle, Eames."

Eames rests back against the kitchen counters, his arms folded over his chest. "I have no idea what that's meant to signify, but I'll cherish the fact that you think we're finally ready for these kinds of personal admissions none the less."

Arthur is more than experienced with ignoring Eames' bullshit, so he does, and succinctly explains, "It rains a lot in Seattle," and leaves it at that. 

Eames fishes a mug out of a cabinet and turns back to Arthur, the corners of his mouth tilted down. "Feeling a bit homesick for Los Angeles then?"

And it's strange, Arthur hasn't been, actually. "Yeah, I miss it." he answers uneasily, and after a moment of quiet, he begins to notice the smell of coffee in the air. "The coffee's ready."

"I don't know that I should give you this," Eames says after he fills a mug, tilting his head doubtfully. "I feel as though I'm enabling your addiction."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "Give me that and no one gets hurt."

"Drink up," Eames says immediately, and he's swift to hand over the mug. He grins down at Arthur, tucks one of his wet curls back behind his ear. "I'll start a hot shower for you, shall I?" 

"Yeah," Arthur affirms. "Thanks."

Eames' cellphone is on the kitchen counter, and it rings as Arthur gulps down this seventh, or possibly eighth, cup of coffee for today. He rolls his eyes at the ringtone as something he vaguely recognizes as "California Gurls", blares out. He has a feeling he's supposed to be the California girl in this scenario, because Eames is an idiot. 

He sets his coffee cup in the sink, and heads up toward the bathroom.

The shower is running as Arthur barges through the bathroom door, and of course, Eames is already naked and standing in the spray, Arthur should have guessed. With the shower curtain open, water is getting all over the floor, but the view is worth it; Eames' broad frame filling the small space, water sluicing down over hard muscle and tan skin. 

Eames smirks at him and strikes an inviting pose, steam billowing out around him and the puddle of water growing on the floor. "Care to join me?" 

Arthur gazes at him scornfully, trying to pull off 'unimpressed', a look that probably would have worked better if he hadn't already been thumbing open the buttons of his soggy shirt. Eames chuckles warmly as he strips down, shuffling over to make room for him under the showerhead. 

"Nice ringtone, asshole," Arthur tells him, as he steps under the spray, the water pushing his hair over his face. 

"The lyrics are surprisingly insightful," Eames says, crowding Arthur up against the cool tiles, slick hands sliding over Arthur's back side, one hairy thigh insinuating its way between Arthur's.

Arthur reaches up to smooth his hair flat again, his hips rolling forward into Eames'. "I thought we were warming me up," he grumbles, fighting a grin.

"Ah, yes," Eames says, feigning remembrance, briskly rubbing his hands over Arthur's skin, not so much creating friction as groping Arthur all over. "California girls are irresistible," he adds then, biting at his bottom lip, looking up at Arthur through his eyelashes, flagrant and pleased with himself. Arthur laughs at that, then stops up Eames' smart mouth with his own.

California may have irresistible girls, but London has a lot to offer too.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"Generally at this point you would either raise or fold, Arthur, if we're still operating under the strictest interpretation of the rules." Eames prompts him, impatiently.

Eames dug up a deck of cards from somewhere and they're playing poker in bed, Eames half-dressed in a ratty pair of sweatpants that he must have stashed somewhere because he never seems to run out of clothes for all that he never goes back to his own place.

Arthur frowns down at his hand of cards. It's shit, like they have been all night; an unusable mix of lows and highs and suites. 

Arthur throws them on the bed and glares at Eames, who is a proven filthy, lying cheater from the night they found a Monopoly board in one of Yusuf's closets. "It's statistically impossible for me to have lost this many hands in a row."

"Improbable certainly, but somehow you've managed it," Eames says smirking, lazily scratching at his belly. Arthur can't help but notice the spot of dried semen in the hair leading down under Eames' waistband, come that Arthur had smeared there after their last go-round, and his dick twitches proprietarily at the memory of it. Suddenly he's had enough of losing at cards for one night.

"Do I need to search you for hidden aces?" he asks, eyebrow raised, already crawling forward, cards shoved aside.

"If it will make you feel better. I won't even resist. In fact, start here," Eames says, helpfully lifting the waistband of his sweatpants enough for Arthur to slide his hands inside.

Eventually, after Arthur makes a thorough investigation of the inside of Eames' pants, they fuck, Arthur's thighs still wet and slick from the last time, on his hands and knees for Eames, his thighs squeezed together around Eames' dick, Eames rubbing him off, sweet and slow, making it last, neither one of them in a hurry to come. Until they are, Eames' hips pounding into his from behind, hard and urgent, his large hands angling Arthur's hips up, growling harshly as he finishes himself off, warm come splattering over and between Arthur's legs, Arthur tugging frantically at his own cock, making a wet mess of the sheets underneath him as he comes.

In the minute that it takes them to sort out their breathing and recover the use of their limbs, Arthur notices something stuck to the back of his thigh, trapped between them in the damp, close place where Eames is still draped over him. 

Arthur reaches back, peels the ace of diamonds off of his leg. 

"A mere coincidence," Eames offers, wide-eyed, downright offended in fact, when Arthur holds it up as evidence. 

He giggles helplessly, still maintaining his innocence, when they spoon together afterwards, naked and over-warm, and Arthur calls him every name in the book.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Arthur is resisting the urge to beat his head against his desk but just barely.

"Nash is a moron. He either misfiled or lost the majority of the accounting ledgers for this fiscal year. No one here seems to have any idea which of his projects he managed to complete and which were still in progress. I'm still working on tracking down his files."

On the other end of the line, Dom makes a sharp, frustrated noise. "You only have two months to figure it out." He has a real talent for stating the obvious.

Arthur rubs his at his temples and the tension lurking there. "Yeah, I haven't forgotten, Dom." It's probably the ninth time Dom has reminded him of that fact, and about the third progress report Dom has demanded today. He's yet to sound satisfied, a bad sign for what has already been an overlong phone call, which Arthur's been actively trying to wrap up for at least the past 12 minutes. He wants to check his cellphone again, but thinks better of it. He's already well-aware of what the screen says, and it's not doing much for his productivity. 

"Good thing I have confidence in you," Dom says. It's a little patronizing, but Arthur is glad to hear it anyway. Arthur has spent most of his adult life cultivating his reputation as the best in the business, and by now it's clear to that there's no one who can do what he can do. It's still gratifying to be appreciated, even while being micro-managed long distance. "It'll be nice to have you back in L.A. Maybe we can go out for a beer." 

It's a nice overture. Dom takes the boss role a little too seriously sometimes, forgets that Arthur is more than a valued employee, that they were friends first. "Yeah, that'd be good," Arthur says, and means it. 

"So, we'll talk later." Dom continues briskly, and that's the dismissal Arthur has been waiting for. 

He stands up from his desk preemptively, hanging up the phone before the word has finished leaving his mouth. "Right."

He looks up to find his assistant standing in his doorway, patiently waiting for his attention. "Here are the blueprints you requested, Arthur." Harriet hands him several rolls of building blueprints, which Arthur sets next to his briefcase.

"Thanks, Harriet." Arthur offers a quick smile, shrugging into his wool peacoat, patting his pockets down for his car keys.

Harriet pauses on her way back out to her desk, her hand on his doorknob, looking around Arthur's tidy borrowed office, smiling questioningly. "Leaving for the day at half-six? In a hurry to get out of here, are we?" she asks, mildly friendly and understandably curious; it's the first time Arthur has ever left the office before her.

Arthur wavers for a second, because on the one hand, there are still a million things that still need to be done here. An interoffice memo that needs to be signed off on, blueprints that need proofing. Things that Dom is counting on him to deal with. And on the other hand, is the text message that Eames sent to him 14 minutes ago, letting Arthur know that he's in Arthur's bed, naked and hard and waiting for him. 

"Yeah, I have things I need to do at home," he says, grinning at her as she laughs and heads back to her desk.

Still smiling, Arthur picks up his things, leaves the office, and doesn't think about work for the rest of the night.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

It's finally snowing in the outskirts of London, a little late in the season, but a welcome change from the rain. They're at a restaurant that Eames has a referral for from someone he met on the Tube. Complete strangers are continually offering up information and secrets to Eames, he has a way of making himself into the one person in the world someone wants to tell things to. Arthur doesn't question it at this point. And anyways, it's hard to argue with a restaurant referral. Good food is good food.

"They'll think I never feed you," Eames says teasingly, watching Arthur shovel food into his mouth, the sixth time they've been out to eat this week. 

Arthur rolls his eyes, swallows what's in his mouth. Eames is a terrible cook and Arthur would starve if he depended on him for sustenance. "They'll be right."

They're just about finished with their entrees, rye-crusted salmon for Arthur and the rack of lamb with mint for Eames, when Eames abruptly stands up, tossing his napkin down on the table.

Arthur raises a questioning eyebrow. Eames smiles reassuringly back at him, and explains, "Just going to pop out for a bit, make a call."

Arthur shrugs, unbothered, and takes another sip of wine. "Sure, whatever."

"Do try not to be so desperately clingy, Arthur, there are other people about," Eames exclaims in mock-horror, grinning as Arthur scowls at him. When he passes by Arthur's chair, he bends down and Arthur automatically tilts his face up to receive a kiss, casual and close-mouthed, the kind of reflexive, artless kiss you give to someone that you've been dating for weeks. 

Arthur stares after him as Eames walks away to take his call. He's feeling a little shell-shocked, and his mind goes a little numb, brimming over with newfound questions. Like, how long has he been in a relationship Eames, and how the fuck didn't he _realize_?

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Arthur is ignoring the television a week later. He has a feeling Eames watches this shit just to irritate him, because who seriously watches a lingerie fashion show? It's the most absurd excuse for glitter and wind machines that Arthur has ever seen.

"Those shoes are brilliant, Arthur, just look at them." Eames says feelingly, fingers tucked in the collar of Arthur's shirt, brushing over the skin at the nape of his neck. Eames is a tactile guy, always fiddling with something; pens, cigarettes, poker chips. Winding their fingers together to pull Arthur in a new direction, rubbing soothing circles on Arthur's back when he tenses up, rolling onto Arthur's side of the bed and wrapping himself around him as they sleep. 

Arthur glances up from his laptop at the screen and wrinkles his nose in distaste at the model strutting across stage in sparkly blue-green slingbacks. "I see them. They're ridiculous," he says because cheap and gaudy would be too much of an understatement.

Eames frowns a little, fixing a patented look of longing and regret on the television. "Right, no, I imagine I am getting much too old for four inch heels," he says, heaving out a disappointed sigh in all earnestness. "And turquoise does nothing for a man of my complexion."

"You're so full of shit," Arthur says, his mouth quirking a little at the corners. 

"Of course. False modesty doesn't suit," Eames agrees, nodding sagely. "I would look fantastic in those shoes."

Arthur shrugs, he can't deny it. Eames pretty much looks amazing in anything. "Better than her anyway," he says, looking back down distractedly at his laptop, opening up a graph in Excel.

Eames gives a pleased little laugh, squeezes Arthur's shoulder. "She's lovely though, you must admit."

Arthur looks up again, frowns over at the model, considering. "I don't see the appeal," Arthur pronounces after a moment, casually and cool.

Eames sits up straighter, jostling Arthur's laptop with his leg. "You're joking," Eames says, an almost disbelieving tone to his voice, which Arthur finds himself a little insulted by. 

"So I don't think she's hot, what's the big deal?" Arthur asks, starting to get annoyed, resettling his computer in his lap before grabbing the remote and changing the channel to something a little more to his tastes. Explosions and hand-to-hand combat.

Eames stares incredulously at him, a little more incredulously than Arthur thinks his admittance warrants. 

"You've never fucked a woman then?" he asks, a leap of logic that Arthur would have called him on, except that he was right. It's not really the kind of thing that they've ever talked about before, mainly because Arthur hates doing the "boyfriend" thing with guys, having those awful conversations about their last serious relationships or any of that shit, it makes him feel awkward and unsure of what the other person wants from him. But of course Eames lives for these kinds of earnest confession situations, the more awkward the better, and Arthur's token resistance against him has never really held up to challenge.

"What, no, why?" he deflects uneasily, before the obvious occurs to him. He pauses, isn't quite sure if he really wants to ask. "Do you--" 

"Fuck women as well as men? Yeah," Eames interrupts, knowing and amused. "Though I tend to prefer men nowadays."

Arthur snorts at that. "I've tended to prefer men since I was 13 and I saw Matt Forbes skinny-dipping at the lake."

A delighted grin spreads across Eames' face, as he tips into Arthur's side, nuzzling Arthur's cheek. "Matt Forbes, is it? Tell me more. Was he fit? Big prick?"

"You're disgusting," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but laughing too, happy to let Eames change the topic. Because yeah, maybe they're dating now, or something like it, but Arthur still has boundaries. Which sometimes with Eames becomes all too easy to forget. He lets Eames reel him in, and they make-out on the couch, leisurely and mild, done with television for the night.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"What you're overlooking, Arthur, is that the U.K. consumes a greater share of end use energy than the U.S. which, as I'm sure you realize, has repercussions in terms of energy conservation in space heating and water heating, particularly with regard to building and planning for commercial venues. You must have read section L of the Conservation of Fuel and Power in the Building Regs."

Eames works as a law clerk for an attorney whose major client is an energy conglomerate and he says things like that when Arthur mentions the trouble he's having with local councils over standards of energy conservation in their buildings.

And yeah, Arthur has read section L of the Conservation of Fuel and Power but not to the point where he could quote it.

"Right, of course," Arthur agrees, trying not to let on that he's impressed by Eames. If Eames caught the delay before Arthur's reply, at least the sudden blare of his phone ringing distracts him from calling Arthur out again on his supposed condescension. That's a fight they've already had too many times to count.

Eames picks his phone up off of the bedside table and checks the display.

"A moment, Arthur, I have to take this." Eames says apologetically, rolling off of the bed. Arthur waves a dismissive hand, already reaching for his laptop as Eames excuses himself to the hallway to answer his call. Arthur is distracted, taking notes and pulling up the building regulations and associated documents on Google, he isn't listening in on Eames' conversation. Or he wasn't trying to, but he does unconsciously manage to overhear the end of the conversation. "Then ring me again later. I miss you too," Eames whispers, his voice soft. Longing.

He comes back into the room moments later with a brilliant smile for Arthur, like they'd been apart too long and he's excited to be with him again.

"Where were we?" he asks, bending down to kiss the shell of Arthur's ear, Arthur forcing a smile in return.

He finds himself wondering who Eames was talking to and is pissed at himself for caring.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The holidays roll around before Arthur knows it, and he's putting in more than the usual excessive hours at the firm trying to preemptively make up for the loss of his staff for a full week. So he's exhausted when he flops into bed on the 24th. He ends up sprawling mostly on top of Eames, and can't find enough energy to move. But it's not a bad place to be, he thinks, making himself comfortable, his head on one of Eames' massive biceps, one knee slung over Eames' thighs, Arthur's just not really in a state where he can appreciate it properly. Although, as Eames makes an interested, lazy noise and wriggles a little underneath him, maybe Arthur's not as tired as he thought he was, getting a little into it despite himself.

"Should we do something?" Eames asks, his book propped open on his chest, a hand slipping down to rub at Arthur's leg, his fingers creeping under the cloth of Arthur's boxers.

"We are doing something," Arthur says quietly, mouthing at the soft skin at the underside of Eames' arm.

Eames gives him a mildly reproachful look. "If I weren't aware you were Jewish, I would say you were sadly lacking in the Christmas spirit."

Arthur stills, partially sits up on one elbow, as a thought occurs to him suddenly. "Did you-- do you have someplace to be, have a family or whatever?"

"I do indeed have a family or whatever," Eames says, and he's clearly laughing at Arthur, who scowls at him sleepily and slaps at the hand that's still tracing absent letters on the back of Arthur's thigh. "But they're away for the holidays. I'm afraid you're stuck with me." He sounds a little wistful about the whole thing, Arthur isn't quite sure what to do with that.

"Lucky me," Arthur tries to joke. Or that's how he intended it, but somehow with his sleep-deprived tongue it comes out sounding kind of soft and honest. 

Arthur lies back down, and closes his eyes, even though he really doesn't intend on falling asleep then. But it's soothing, the heat coming off of Eames' body, the even rise and fall of his chest, lulling him in. He's just going to keep his eyes closed for a minute...

A phone is ringing, and obnoxiously it won't stop even after Arthur blearily glares at it where it sits on his nightstand.

"It's yours," Arthur groans, because when he finally convinced Eames to change his ringtone on his cellphone to something suitable for a grown man he wasn't anticipating being woken at 5am by the shrill ring.

Eames flops over on top of him, reaching clumsily for his phone, though he rolls off of Arthur and out of bed to finally answer it. "Hello? Mmm, yes, just planning on having a bit of a lie-in. Have you opened your presents yet?" he asks the person on the other end of the line, not sparing a glance for Arthur as he drags Arthur's robe off of the chest at the end of the bed, sliding into it as he disappears into the hallway.

Arthur props himself up on his elbows. He could technically go back to sleep. But it is Christmas. And Jewish or not, Arthur thinks maybe he should do something for Eames, who's away from his family for the holidays and clearly missing them. He doesn't know what he can do, except distract Eames and hope that maybe it would make it easier for him to be alone on Christmas. With that decided, Arthur slides out of bed and makes his way downstairs to start the coffee.

Eames comes into the kitchen 20 minutes later and takes one look at where Arthur is pathetically staring at the incomprehensible coffee maker and nudges him aside to pull the coffee grounds out of the cupboard. "You should learn to do this for yourself, what happens if I'm not here?" Eames says, fond and exasperated.

"Why wouldn't you be here?" Arthur asks absently, leaning into Eames' side, lazy now that coffee will be making its way to him without any effort on his part. 

Eames hums out an agreement, dashing an absent kiss to Arthur's forehead. "Lucky you."

Eames follows that up a few minutes later with a proper kiss and a cup of coffee. Arthur takes him back to bed, after, and they manage to keep each other sufficiently distracted for the rest of the day.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"It's New Years, Arthur, tell me you aren't planning to work the day away." Eames stands next to the desk Arthur set up in the spare room with his arms folded over his chest, casting a disgusted look over the mountain of paperwork Arthur has in front of him.

"My job is important, Eames." Arthur really can't help the pissy tone to his voice. Dom has been on his ass all week over these contracts and Arthur needs to get them polished up and finalized before he snaps, flies back to Los Angeles and takes a baseball bat to Dom's telephone just to get a little peace. Arthur just needs to get this done before he completely loses control of the situation. It shouldn't be so hard for Eames to understand, Arthur is in meltdown mode, and Eames getting in his face about it isn't helping.

Eames snorts rudely. "As is mine, and yet you don't see me working on a holiday."

"Yeah, that's not a surprise," Arthur snaps, rolling his eyes and turning back to his desk, thinking that maybe if he's lucky, Eames will finally take the hint.

"Right. Not a surprise," Eames says, equitable and easy. 

And it is mercifully silent after that. Arthur spends a few blissful minutes on his work before he realizes that the reason it's so quiet is because Eames has left the room. Arthur casts back, trying to guess what the problem is now, wincing when what he said and the way Eames flinched when he said it comes back to him. He hadn't meant it like that, not really, he knows that Eames works hard and is good at what he does. Fuck. He closes his laptop, giving it a final longing look, before he goes to find Eames.

Eames is standing in the kitchen, looking out the window into Yusuf's back yard, rain steadily falling outside. He doesn't turn when Arthur walks up behind him. But he doesn't startle either when Arthur sidles in close, wraps his arms around Eames' waist, fits his chin over Eames' shoulder.

"You can be insufferably smug, did you know that?" Eames asks, tiredly. "I don't know why I should put up with you." He sounds more honestly curious than angry, which for some reason puts Arthur's back up.

"Same reason I put up with you when you're doing that passive-aggressive bullshit." Arthur scoffs in return.

"Are we rowing still or is this you making it up to me?" Eames asks, turning his head enough that he can see Arthur, pulling a confused face. "I'm afraid you're going to have to clarify what's happening here."

Arthur decides to let it go. It isn't their first fight or anything. It isn't great every day, but in Arthur's experience, nothing ever is. They argue over where they'll eat dinner or who gets to sleep on the left side of the bed, the one closest to the bathroom and the heat register. And then there's the bigger stuff. Arthur is regimented, he hates feeling like he isn't in control. Eames is spontaneous, chafing against Arthur's rigidity. And Eames isn't needy, or not really. But he demands attention in a way that Arthur can't quite get used to. It's like he's accustomed to being the center of someone's attention and Arthur struggles with meeting that demand. All this means is that some kind of apology is in order, because Arthur knew all that and was a dick about it anyway, said something stupid and spiteful without meaning it.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and he follows it up with a hand on Eames' cock, groping him through his jeans, because this, Arthur knows how to do. He knows how to make it good for Eames.

Eames groans, as Arthur gently rubs the heel of his palm over his cock and it starts to swell. "You make it extremely difficult to stay fucked off with you," he says, slumping back, the familiar weight of his body settled neatly against Arthur, as he goes boneless with pleasure.

Arthur hides his grin in the curve of Eames' neck, against the visibly red, mouth-shaped mark he left in that spot last night, happily breathing in the rich, masculine scent there. "I know."

He pops the buttons on Eames' fly and tucks his fingers inside of his boxers, enjoying Eames' sudden, ragged exhales. Arthur doesn't have enough room to get fancy, so he goes with the basics; keeping his grip tight, stroking as fast and best he can. It's seems like it would be more of a tease than anything that will get Eames off, but if the hand-job is lacking in finesse, Eames doesn't seem to care. He's drawing in harsh breaths through his mouth, his hips cycling in helpless little jerks. He's tumbling inexorably toward the edge, and Arthur does his best to drive him over it. Sliding Eames' foreskin back, his thumb circling the wet head of Eames' dick, dipping into the slit - and there, Eames is gone, moaning as he comes, hot and sticky in Arthur's hand.

"Just need a minute, love," Eames says softly, wriggling back against Arthur's erection, which has been insistently digging into Eames' hip since Arthur got his hand down Eames' pants.

Arthur shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he says, kissing Eames' warm, flushed neck, his cheek, content to just hold him like this, as long as he doesn't look too closely at that feeling. "You don't have to."

Eames' eyes are dark when he turns around, backs Arthur up against the counter. "I want to. Arthur, I want to," he says. And he goes down on his knees, all of Arthur's protests drying up then.

Eames spreads open the flaps of Arthur's pants, tugs them and Arthur's underwear out of the way, sitting back on his heels a little to escape an eyeful of Arthur's dick. He's smirking up at Arthur as he leans in, burying his face between Arthur legs, inhaling deeply. Eames groans a little, resting his forehead against Arthur's belly. "I want to," he says again, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the base of Arthur's cock.

"Fuck," Arthur says, spreading his legs as much as he can within the restriction of his pants tangled around his thighs, letting one hand settle on Eames' shoulder. "I know you do, I know you want it," he murmurs, as Eames licks at the head of his cock, and then sucks it into his gorgeous mouth, his tongue still licking at Arthur's slit, looking for the taste of him. Eames doesn't bother with technique after that, just keeps his mouth wet and the suction tight, bobbing his head quickly as he sucks Arthur off. Sometimes they both like it sloppy, and fuck it, it works.

"So good, Eames, it's so good," Arthur groans. And once he starts talking he can't seem to stop. "You love it," he whispers, "You love sucking my cock, feeling it in your throat, taking me deep," Arthur continues, his voice beginning to crack. 

"Ah, take all of it, you like that. You like the taste of it." Arthur pushes Eames back a little, wraps a hand around his dick, squeezing it firmly until precome beads along the head. He wipes it off on Eames' wet bottom lip, Eames' tongue darting out immediately to lap it up. "Yeah, you love the taste," Arthur grunts, Eames tipping forward again, his mouth falling open, letting Arthur's dick slide back in.

Eames hums around his cock, a pleased, contented sound in apparent agreement, gripping at Arthur's hips, urging Arthur to thrust, allowing Arthur to use his mouth. And Arthur's babbling, "Don't stop, don't stop, Eames, I'm so close," as his hips jerk, selfishly, helplessly, and he fucks Eames' throat, grinding his cock-head against the roof of Eames' mouth on every thrust in.

If he had more time he would have told Eames how fucking amazing he is at this, better than anyone, the best Arthur has ever had. But his fingers are already tightening on Eames' shoulder, and he shudders hard, a full-bodied shake, then stills, pulsing deep in Eames' mouth, his semen spurting down Eames throat as Eames swallows and drools around him.

"Fuck," Eames says a moment later, voice ruined as he wobbles up to his feet, panting for breath. His dick is still hanging out of his underwear, half-hard again, as he gathers Arthur close. "You're amazing," he whispers, kissing Arthur again and again, and Arthur, trembling and grinning, clings to him.

He still has work to do. But for once Arthur has lost control, and he doesn't care if he finds it again. 

"Happy New Year," he says quietly, holding onto Eames, and feeling Eames' lips curve up against his.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

A few nights after that, Arthur startles out of a dream in the middle of the night and only half-wakes, and for a moment he panics, his body strung tight and his heart pounding. He can't move. He doesn't know where he is.

He instinctively tries to shift away and the arm around him tightens, molds Arthur's tense frame back into someone else's solid weight, chest to Arthur's back, their knees tucked together under the blankets. "Mmm, Arthur," someone says. And it's Eames' voice against his ear, sounding more than half-asleep himself, and Eames' heavy arm draped over Arthur's middle. Arthur relaxes. He remembers now. 

He's warm and comfortable, and as he drops back into sleep, he isn't alone.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Around mid-week they have lunch together, claiming a little table in the back of a cafe that Arthur favors for its fruit salad and Eames for its merits in people-watching; the centralized location and the large plate glass windows. The only person Arthur watches is Eames. He's dressed in the one suit he owns that appeals to Arthur's own tastes, the black on black, with the faintest of pinstripes. His collar is open, the tattoo on his collarbone peeking out at Arthur every time Eames cranes his neck to watch a passerby. He looks classically handsome, modern, urbane. He's kind of an asshole that way. 

Arthur stabs another piece of cantaloupe, glaring over at Eames, who isn't paying attention to him anyways. He also hasn't slept over at Arthur's place for the past three nights, not that it matters to Arthur. Eames has to work, he has things to take care of at home. Arthur doesn't need excuses, he doesn't own Eames. It's good that he has his own life. And it's not like they live together. It's just been weird, is all, Eames not being there. Arthur has kind of gotten used to having him around.

"Come over tonight," Arthur finally says, the words forced out of him against his better judgment, drawing Eames' attention back from where he was watching a woman spoon macaroni into her small child's mouth, his gaze gone soft at the sight.

Eames turns that gaze on him, rubbing a hand over his unshaven cheek, shaking his head regretfully. "Not tonight I'm afraid, I have to work late."

Arthur shoots him an unimpressed look, speaking around a mouthful of melon. "So do I. Come over after."

Eames sighs dramatically. "Arthur, I'd be fucking your gorgeous sweet little arsehole right now if I could, but I can't tonight, I have too much to do," he says, as he watches Arthur from across the table, a filthy little smirk blooming on his face.

And Arthur blinks quickly, his cheeks going hot as the images hit him like a freight train. Eames behind him, pressing him down into the mattress. Eames on top of him, his body sweaty and warm along Arthur's back. Eames' cock, thick and hard inside of him, knowing Arthur can take it all. The last time was four days ago, which as far as Arthur is concerned, is four days too long. 

"You do realize that we're in public," he says eventually, sardonic and easy, purposefully not looking around to see who might be listening.

Eames is unrepentant, casually sipping his tea. "You're one to talk, with the vulgar mouth on you."

"Which is it, Eames, my mouth or my ass, you can't have both," Arthur says, dimpling at Eames, enjoying him despite himself.

Eames laughs, his pretty blue eyes pinning Arthur as he leans in across the table. "I can and I will," Eames says, voice dark with promise. Arthur shivers.

"When?" he asks, his mouth dry and his hands clenched tight into fists in his lap. It's the only thing keeping him from reaching out for Eames right here, right now.

Eames looks away, pushing his plate aside, setting his napkin on the table. "I can try to pencil something in later in the week," Eames offers evasively. He makes a show of checking his watch. "I have to get back to the office, Arthur," he says, standing hastily.

He stares down at Arthur for a moment as he pulls on his coat, long enough that Arthur raises an eyebrow and finally has to ask, "What?"

Eames shakes his head thoughtfully, his lips curving, tenderness lacing his expression. "I've been missing you," he says simply, and before he turns to leave, bends down to give Arthur another one of those absent-minded, aimless kisses. Then he's weaving his way through the cafe's tables, disappearing before Arthur can think of anything to say in return. Like, maybe that he's been missing Eames too. That Arthur wants him around.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Arthur's been in London for over two months now. He only has two and a half weeks left until he heads back home to Los Angeles. He isn't exactly counting down the days. If he had it his way, he wouldn't be thinking about the looming deadline at all. But for some reason he's finding it hard to ignore the fact that it's coming. Call it Arthur's long-neglected sentimental side. All he knows is that he wants to make the most of these last couple of weeks. He wants to spend the time that he has left in London with Eames. 

He's been respectful of the fact that Eames told him that he was too busy to see him. But as far as Arthur is concerned, now it's been two weeks of phone calls and lunches and one quickie in the bathroom stall of a restaurant and Arthur not sleeping well at night, and enough is enough.

Arthur has one of Eames' business cards, and there at the bottom of it in clear print is Eames' home address. He's through debating with himself over it, about whether he should surprise Eames and turn up at his house, or wait it out, until Eames comes to him. The one thing that he's learned while in London is that you need to make time, if it's important to you. Arthur thinks this might be important. 

He picks up dinner at one of Eames' favorite restaurants, the one that does samosas and saffron rice, and a bottle of red when he leaves work. And before he can talk himself out of it, he programs his GPS with Eames' address and starts to drive.

Eames lives about 20 minutes away from Yusuf's cottage. Arthur parks his car at the end of the driveway and walks up to the stone two-story house. There's a tidy garden in the front yard, a cozy golden glow emanating from the windows. It's nothing like what Arthur expected. He falters a little knocking on the door, and blames the stupid, sudden onset of nerves. It's not like he has anything to be nervous about, Arthur reminds himself. It's Eames.

It's only a minute before the door swings open, but it feels like a lot longer, Arthur already reconsidering how good of an idea this is. It's a relief when Eames finally opens the door, a reflexive vague, impersonal smile on his face, dressed in wool trousers and a button-down shirt. 

Arthur grins. Who would have ever thought that he would be this glad to see one of Eames' fucking awful wide-collared shirts?

"Arthur. What are you doing here?" Eames asks, his expression wavering between disbelief and panic before he shuts down, goes completely blank, stepping into the doorway and blocking it with his body. If it hadn't been clear enough from his words and his tone, it would have been more than evident from that that Arthur is unwelcome. Arthur's grin fades.

He should have known, it's blindingly obvious now that Eames has been blowing him off all of this time. He should have gotten the message and he hadn't, so he feels angry, and stupid, and worst of all, hurt. "You wouldn't come to me, so I came to you," Arthur replies stiffly. He can still get out of this cleanly, make his excuses and a hasty retreat. "I guess I shouldn't have bothered--"

A lilting voice interrupts, piping up from behind Eames. "Do we have company?" 

He had been wrong, Arthur thinks, his spine tensing. In retrospect, the dots were all there, waiting to be connected, and so he's frustrated and annoyed with himself, because he should have realized. Eames has a life of his own, a life that he kept from him, that Arthur is intruding on now. Arthur locks gazes with him, thinks he recognizes regret in Eames' eyes as he turns toward the voice, shifting aside in the doorway so that Arthur can see inside. 

They look just like him, the two little girls standing next to Eames; the same blue eyes and facial features, the same dusty blonde hair, plaited neatly into braids. Eames' daughters. "Oh, hello," the taller one says, smiling cheerfully up at Arthur. "I'm Alice. That's Bonnie," she continues, pointing to her sister, who gives Arthur a shy little wave. Arthur comes up with a smile.

"I'm Arthur."

"Did you bring us presents?" Alice's eyes brighten when she notices the bag in Arthur's hand, and she skips forward eagerly to take it from him.

"Well, it's food. The wine was for your father," Arthur says hesitantly, as she gives it a curious shake.

Alice looks up, still beaming at him in excitement. "You're coming in, aren't you?" Alice asks hopefully, and at loss, Arthur takes a step forward over the threshold, into their home. The door shuts behind him, and Arthur finds himself standing in their living room, right in the middle of Eames' hidden life. 

"Why don't you take that into the kitchen for me, loves?" Eames says distractedly to Alice and Bonnie, and he waits until the girls skip away exclaiming over the boxes of take-away to move in closer to Arthur. He reaches for him, and flinches minutely when Arthur steps out of range. Eames takes a deep breath in, visibly gathering himself. "Arthur--" Eames starts out, and his voice is unsteady and hoarse. Arthur takes a hard comfort in that. 

"Are you m-a-r-r-i-e-d?" he asks, interrupting him, spelling it out in case Eames' kids can still hear them. He shouldn't be here, looking around him at the pastel painted walls, the tiny, pink raincoats that hang on hooks by the door. It's surreal, and uncomfortable as fuck, but there's some perverse part of him that needs to know exactly how much of an idiot he's been. 

"D-i-v-o-r-c-e-d," Eames says. "I never lied to you, Arthur, I promise you that." 

Arthur shakes his head. "How can I accept that?" he asks, because this feels like a lie, like a really big fucking lie, like a trap that Eames set for him and Arthur walked into without any warning. "Why wouldn't you just tell me?"

A tiny voice rings out from down the hall, presumably from the kitchen. "Is Arthur staying for dinner?"

Eames goes still, and pins Arthur with his gaze. "I'd like it if you stayed," Eames says. "But I would understand if you can't."

Arthur looks over at the front door. He could take the escape route, Eames wouldn't try to stop him. And that might be the smarter option because Arthur doesn't know if he can be mature about this, enough to have dinner with Eames' secret family, enough to let Eames have his say. But he can't exactly imagine leaving either and never knowing the whole story. He exhales deeply, and gives Eames a little nod, ignoring the over the top relief that flashes across Eames' face. He can do this.

Their kitchen is bright and open, a large dinning table at the center, crayon drawings pinned to the walls. Bonnie sets out paper plates, as Alice serves the food and Eames pours their drinks, a set routine between them apparently.

As they eat Arthur focuses his attention on Alice and Bonnie, which is easy enough because they're both fascinated with him. They gasp over the fact that he's from Los Angeles ("Hollywood," Alice yelps, making Bonnie wriggle in her seat with excitement. "Have you met Rihanna?" Bonnie asks, solemnly. "She's my favorite singer.") and his taste in clothes. ("I like your tie," Bonnie says, and she's scooted her chair over until it's pressed against Arthur's, sitting back to stare up at him unblinkingly while he hides a smile and thanks her.) They've accepted Arthur's presence there without question, and disturbingly, it's just as easy for him to be with them.

It isn't until after the food, when Alice pulls out a deck of cards that Arthur relaxes enough to laugh. The girls are fun to be with, clever and charming. Just like Eames.

"You should show Arthur the card trick," Alice says, pushing the deck toward Eames, who shakes his head.

"It isn't really for polite company," he hedges, collecting the plates from the table and setting them in the sink.

Alice and Bonnie both exclaim disappointedly. "Please?" Alice asks, Bonnie pouting pitifully from her position of listing into Arthur's side. "Won't you, please?" 

Eames sighs dramatically "Fine," he relents, reaching over to pick up the deck off the table to the cheers of the girls.

Eames shuffles the deck quickly, fans out the cards and offers them to Bonnie. 

"If you would do the honors," Eames says, and happily, Bonnie picks a card, the ace of diamonds, studying it for a moment before she slides it back into the deck and Eames shuffles them again. 

"Is this your card?" Eames asks, flipping over the top card of the deck, the nine of clubs. Bonnie shakes her head. 

"No, of course not," Eames says, frowning down at the cards in concentration. "Perhaps if Arthur checked his pockets..." Eames offers thoughtfully, quirking an eyebrow up at Arthur.

Arthur dutifully pats at his pockets, not expecting much. But he really should have guessed, he finds the ace of diamonds in the left pocket of his pants. Bonnie claps. 

"That was good," she says, and she and Eames grin at each other.

"You've impressed me, Mr. Eames," Arthur admits, and it's not as hard as it probably should be to meet Eames' eyes and smile.

Alice bends forward conspiratorially, speaking in a loud whisper to Arthur and Bonnie. "He's really quite the best father I know."

"He's very funny," Bonnie adds, nodding for emphasis. "And he tells stories."

"We're very fond of him," Alice says, and she looks at Arthur expectantly. He finds himself flushing a little, and shoots a glance at Eames.

Eames looks a little embarrassed himself as he bows down to kiss the tops of the girls' heads, but he's also smiling proudly. "Those are quite the compliments. I'm very fond of you as well. Now, who wants to run upstairs and change into their pajamas?" he asks, looking over at Bonnie.

"I want Arthur to take me," she pipes up immediately, edging closer to Arthur, practically in his lap at this point.

Eames looks at Arthur with a lifted brow, and he's clearly asking Arthur to take pity on him. "Eames, it's fine. I can take her. Just point me in the right direction," he says. Bonnie reaches her arms up to him as he stands. He lifts her easily, as Alice grabs Eames' hand and drags him ahead up the stairs, leaving him and Bonnie to follow.

"You smell good," Bonnie says in her earnest way as Arthur carries her up the stairs, snuggling into his arms and sniffing at the hair at the nape of his neck, a little puppy-ish sound that makes Arthur laugh.

"So do you." Like baby shampoo and the orange juice she had with dinner.

Bonnie nods, accepting the compliment seriously. "Father won't let me wear cologne. But he says I can wear perfume when I get to be a teenager."

"That sounds fair," Arthur says, and he smiles at her, helplessly charmed.

"I thought so," she replies gravely.

He sets her down in the doorway of the room that Alice and Eames disappeared into, and she grins sunnily up at him one last time, before running in to cast her arms around Eames' leg. Alice is already perched on the end of one of the beds, a book open on her lap as Eames folds back the covers for her.

The girls' bedroom is frilly and pink, gauzy curtains hang down from the ceilings over the beds, a lamp with cut-outs in the shade casting star shapes along the walls. There are dolls and books and clothes crammed everywhere. And Eames is in the middle of it, incongruous and yet entirely at home, setting Bonnie on the bed and helping her out of her shoes, his hands looking impossibly large on the tiny buckles. He's a father. This is Eames' real life.

Eames looks up to see Arthur hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "I'll only be a minute," Eames says, haltingly. "If you wanted to wait downstairs."

"Yeah," Arthur says when he can, voice gone surprisingly gruff. "Goodnight, Bonnie. Alice."

"Goodnight, Arthur," Alice says cheerily, bouncing a little on her bed as Bonnie waves at him. "You should come over again to visit us."

Arthur smiles weakly. "I'd like that," he says, fleeing before he has to see the expression on Eames' face.

Arthur waits in the living room for Eames. He's drawn to the photographs on the bookcases; the girls in sundresses on their front lawn, Alice in a costume for a school play, Bonnie as a toddler in an overlarge fedora. And every once in a while, Eames holding the camera out of frame while the three of them grin happily, arms around each other.

He feels more than hears Eames enter the room behind him. He braces himself, and turns to face him. He really only has one question. "Their mother?"

"In Sydney, last she informed me," Eames says, matter of factly, folding his arms over his chest. "After Bonnie was born, she let me know that she wasn't interested in being a mother and she wasn't particularly invested in the marriage at that point either. I'm their only parent. The girls were with their grandparents when you and I met. Time to myself is a luxury. You were a luxury," And when he reaches out for Arthur this time, to cup Arthur's jaw, to run his thumb over Arthur's lip, Arthur doesn't step back. The sharp edges of anger have smoothed away, mostly.

"You could have told me," he says, injecting a note of exasperation. Arthur can exonerate Eames of everything but that, that Eames hadn't told him.

"I should have. I would have." Eames' hand drops, and he shrugs, clearly frustrated. "But you won't be here forever, Arthur. It didn't seem fair to burden you with all of this." 

Arthur's heart is beating quick, little hummingbird flutters that vibrate in his throat. Eames is right. This thing with Eames was more trouble than Arthur needed and Arthur shouldn't be surprised. Eames has been trouble from the moment they met. "You're right," he says, suddenly aware of how badly his hands are shaking. "I should go." 

He walks out the door then and Eames doesn't stop him.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The next three days are miserable, Arthur won't even try to deny that. He goes to work, comes home to a too quiet house, makes dinner for himself, and wakes up in the morning in a big, empty bed. He's alone, and it should be fine with two weeks left to go in London, he should be used to it, but he's not, he's used to Eames being here and Arthur hates that he's not. But he forces himself out of bed Sunday morning, determined to get back to his routine. He goes downstairs, mentally going over his to-do list for the day as he heads for the kitchen.

He starts to pass through the living room but stops cold when he finds Eames sitting on his couch, waiting for him. 

Surprised, Arthur can only blink owlishly for moment, thinking, bewildered, this could be a dream, and trying to remember how he got here. "What are you doing here?" he asks eventually, taking an eager step forward before he stops himself again.

"Arthur." Eames tilts his head, his expression watchful, as he gets to his feet, and Arthur isn't quite sure what he's looking for but he seems to find it as he comes closer. Eames' eyes have gone dark and desperate as he strides into Arthur's space, grabbing at him until they're pressed tight together, chest to chest, hips to hips. He kisses Arthur then, and if Arthur was thinking, he might call it romantic, or close enough to it, his and Eames' variation of it, riding a fine edge between demanding and sweet, the way it is when you want to savor something that you're desperate to gobble down, something you can't get enough of. Arthur lets himself have this one last taste, even though they probably shouldn't, because it's so good, it's just impossibly good.

"I'm here because you're here. It doesn't have to be good-bye yet," Eames murmurs, lips still pressed gently against Arthur's, voice thick.

Arthur doesn't know how to respond, he doesn't want to say anything, he doesn't even want to think about anything that could ruin this. So he just presses back into Eames, kisses him until he's breathless, dizzy with it.

Arthur gasps slightly, chasing after Eames' mouth with his own as Eames pulls away and steps back. He takes a seat on the couch again, settling into the cushions, and patting his thighs in invitation, his erection tenting the front of his pants obscenely. "Come and sit in my lap," he offers, smirking shamelessly. Arthur shoves his sleep shorts down, lets them fall to the floor. He palms his dick, stroking himself lazily as he straddles Eames, who reaches down into the couch cushions, one of several places where they have condoms and lube conveniently stashed away. Eames pops the top of the bottle and pours some over his fingers, only fumbling the bottle slightly as Arthur nibbles at his ear and scrubs a hand through Eames' hair. Arthur has never wanted anyone else this way, so overwhelmingly, totally -- "Fuck, please," he moans, breathing hotly against the side of Eames' face.

Eames' fingers are wet and straying back, skimming over the sensitive skin behind Arthur's balls, and up, toying with the rim of his hole. Eames is taking his time, circling around it, his index finger light and gentle over the sensitive skin, clearly enjoying the way Arthur gasps and sighs, trying to push back into the touch. Eames is teasing, which is unfair since it's been so long and Arthur is naked and hard and shivering in his lap, clutching Eames' shirt in his fists, bunching the fabric between his fingers.

"You are planning on fucking me eventually, right?" Arthur aims for sarcastic and lands on wrecked, his voice breaking in the middle.

"Oh, yes," Eames says on a sigh, the very tip of one finger working past the tight ring of muscle, before retreating back again. "Eventually. There's no rush, is there?"

Arthur shakes his head. "We have time," he breathes out. He doesn't technically need this much prep, but if Eames wants to draw it out, well, it's not like Arthur doesn't understand the urge. He'd thought it had been a waste, not knowing that the last time had been the _last_ time, when he'd just gone back to work after like it was nothing special. It's better, this time, to linger, do this right, if this is really it.

Eames slides a little more of his finger inside of Arthur, past the second knuckle now, and fucks him like that, rocking in slowly, skimming past his prostate over and over, until Arthur sweats from it, the moisture gathering on his over-warm skin, in the creases of his elbows and behind his knees, and the muscles in his legs tremble with the effort of holding him in place, and he sways where he kneels over Eames' lap.

"I could make you come like this," Eames notes, his gaze fixed on where Arthur's cock is snug and twitching against his belly, so needy, red and hard and leaking steadily, fat drops of precome coursing out of him. He's soaked through Eames' shirt, an obscene damp stain spreading from where he's pressed against him. "But you would rather have my cock, wouldn't you?" 

Arthur's cock jerks hard, and it's sheer force of will that keeps him from whimpering. Eames watches him carefully, licking his lips as he abruptly switches to three fingers and Arthur takes them, stretching easily, opening up around him. 

"I want your cock," Arthur whispers, precise and pointed. Because Eames has a weakness for Arthur's mouth, and Arthur isn't ashamed to take advantage of it. He needs to get fucked, and frankly he doesn't want to wait any longer. 

"I always want it. I love getting you hard with my mouth, love how thick you are, how you fill my throat. And I love it when you fuck me, how you fit inside me, how tight I feel around you--"

"You're a filthy little demon, I hope you realize," Eames interjects, voice strangled, face appealingly flushed. And thank fuck, he's ready to give up on slow, manhandling Arthur like it's nothing to lift him up and spin him around, Arthur's back to Eames' front, as Eames rips his fly open, shimming a little to get his dick out, sighing with relief as it springs out of the front of his pants, rosy and rock-hard. Arthur's impatiently touching himself as he waits for Eames to rip open the condom packaging and roll it down over his cock, to hold himself steady for Arthur with one hand, the other on Arthur's hip, guiding him down until the blunt tip of Eames' cock nudges against his hole. Eames finally lets Arthur take over then, groaning with pleasure as Arthur holds himself open, biting his lip at the slight burn as he takes Eames' cock, sinking down gradually, lowering himself in increments, until he's fully seated on Eames' lap. And fuck, Arthur hadn't been lying about how much he loved this feeling; stretched and full.

Arthur moves up and down on wobbly legs, alternating in a little cycle of his hips, with Eames thrusting up to meet him. Eames' mouth is open against the space between Arthur's shoulder blades, and he pants unevenly, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips. "You feel so amazing, Arthur, no one else--" Eames pauses, their hips slamming together, the rhythm becoming jarring, desperate.

"No one else will ever fuck you like this," Eames groans out, pressing his forehead against the damp line of Arthur's back.

Arthur nods mindlessly. "I know." 

No one else will ever be exactly like this. This is Eames, gorgeous and sexy; the broad hands heavy on Arthur's hips, the satisfied sounds he makes when he's inside Arthur, the strength in his thigh muscles as he braces his feet against the floor and shoves up, thrusting in deep. These are the nuances to the way Eames fucks, and Arthur will never have this again.

Eames' hand sneaks around to circle Arthur's cock, where it's bobbing against Arthur's belly, insistent and needy. And Eames' hand is perfect, it always is, slick and sure, rubbing over the plump head of Arthur's dick, smoothing down the slim shaft. He leans Arthur forward a little, and the angle is just right, and Eames works it with his cock, hard and dirty, sliding into Arthur's prostate until Arthur goes limp from it, and he's still begging Eames to never stop, to just please keep fucking him, because he hasn't had enough, he'll never have enough. Arthur doesn't know how long he manages to last before his orgasm overtakes him, because it hits him like a fucking wrecking ball out of nowhere, lays him to waste, and he comes, streaking semen up his stomach and his chest, seizing up around Eames' cock as it shakes him to the ground. He distantly hears Eames cry out, feels him pushes in deep, the intimate jerk of his cock inside of Arthur as Eames comes too. 

Eames shudders through the aftermath, his chest heaving. Arthur lets his head fall back against Eames' shoulder, reaching back to rub a hand over Eames' raspy, whiskered cheek. 

They sit quietly for a moment, recovering, shifting only minutely to deal with the condom before collapsing back together. Eames wraps an arm around Arthur's waist, holding him down, keeping him close. And Arthur thinks, I don't want him to let go.

"Do you ever get out to LA? New York?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, giving Eames' searching lips access to the hinge of his jaw, the underside of his chin. 

Eames grimaces ruefully. "Occasionally. Not often."

"I don't know when I'd be able to come back to London," Arthur admits, mind working furiously. He can still make this work. There's a chance, if things don't implode in the Berlin office between now and then, Arthur could put in four to six months at the office in Los Angeles, then maybe after that...

Eames sits Arthur up slightly, adjusting his body so that he can meet Arthur's gaze. "So don't leave. Stay."

"What?"

"Stay. Don't go back to America." Eames repeats, and the look on his face is...

Arthur averts his eyes. "I can't stay."

"Why can't you?" Eames challenges him.

Arthur huffs out an irritated noise, his back tensing. "Because if I stayed--" he starts uneasily, but he can't finish it. 

Eames doesn't pull any punches, he never does. "It would be for me. For this," he says, his hands wrapping around Arthur's ribs, his fingers smearing through the come high on Arthur's belly.

"I can't," Arthur bites out. It isn't fair of Eames to ask it of him. He knows that Arthur has a life in Los Angeles, he knows that Arthur has to go home, he can't just stay. It isn't fair to ask because he must know that Arthur would if he could.

It's obvious that Eames wants to fight him on this, but for once, Eames doesn't press him for more than he can give. The tension between them falls away, and Eames' hands come up to frame Arthur's face, pulling him in close. 

"So I was wrong. This is good-bye," he says, and it's sad. Arthur's sad.

It had been easier than Arthur ever would have imagined to fall into this kind of demi-relationship with Eames. Arthur's thirty-two, and he's lived the past decade of that as a nomad. His life has as much stability as he can give it, which isn't much. He'd had to realize at a certain point that he isn't able to offer another person any kind of guarantees, and that trying was kind of a stupid idea. He doesn't know where his job will take him next, or how long he might have to be away. As attracted as he is to Eames, as much as he just likes Eames, likes being around him, as much as he wishes that things were different, and he does, badly, his job in London is over and he's leaving. He can't share his life with someone when he doesn't have a life to share. It was always going to end badly, him and Eames. They live in two different worlds. 

Arthur closes his eyes, and lets Eames kiss him, once more, comforting them both.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Two weeks later, Arthur has his plane ticket in his pocket. His bags are packed and set by the front door, waiting for them. A ten hour flight and he's back in Los Angeles. It'll be good, he thinks. Palm trees, sunny days, maybe he'll go out for a beer this weekend with Dom. And there's work, of course. That's his life in L.A. The things that he's been missing out on in London. 

It isn't much.

Dom calls as Arthur is doing a last minute sweep through the cottage, checking for any of his belongings he might have accidentally left behind. Arthur answers his phone, ignoring the tiny part of him that had jumped when it rang and had hoped that it would be Eames.

"Arthur. How was it?"

"Fastest three months of my life," Arthur replies truthfully, and the plane ticket in his pocket feels heavy.

Dom laughs. "It'll be good to have you back. There's been noise of a takeover in Cobol Engineering. We may need you to head out to Germany, smooth the way."

Arthur puts a hand in his pocket, his fingers clenching around his ticket to L.A. Los Angeles, and then off to Germany, and after that, who knows where; never settling down, never at home, that's Arthur's life. Or it has been, and Arthur is just now realizing maybe it doesn't have to be anymore.

"Dom. I'm not coming back," Arthur blurts out.

"What?" Dom sounds startled, but Arthur doesn't blame him. It's a little Wizard of Oz to be offered the fantastic and turn it down because you want to go home, he can barely believe it himself.

He wants to go home.

"I'm going to be working out of the London office for the foreseeable future."

"What? Arthur, what?" Dom sputters.

"I'll explain later. I have to go." Arthur hangs up the phone to Dom still shouting a disbelieving, "What?" over the line.

Arthur takes his bags out to the car, but leaves his plane ticket behind. He won't need it.

He speeds on the way to Eames' house, his fingers drumming anxiously on the steering wheel as he impatiently negotiates London traffic. 

And then, after an interminably amount of time, he's finally there. Walking up to Eames' doorstep, knocking on Eames' door.

"Eames," he says, when the door swings open and Eames is there in front of him. It's encouraging, how astonished Eames looks to see him standing there. Arthur has always enjoyed exceeding expectations.

"I'll stay as long as you want me," Arthur tells him. And he doesn't know what else he can offer.

"I'll always want you, Arthur," Eames says, and his smile is familiar and all the more dazzling for it. "Fair warning."

Arthur grins back, lets Eames tug him inside, and into his arms. "Fair enough."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**A Year or so Later**

Arthur frowns down at the blueprints on the coffee table in front of him. They're complicated, paradoxical. In places, they're pushing the boundaries of physics. Especially for a dollhouse. But Bonnie is her father's daughter. They both have a way of making the impossible seem possible, and Arthur isn't going to be the one to place limits on her imagination.

Alice shifts next to him, her feet tucked under one of his legs. It's a joke with Eames, that Arthur is everyone's favorite. Eames is beside him on the couch, listing into Arthur's shoulder as he reads a legal brief, solid and warm against him, with Bonnie sitting on the floor between them, wearing one of Arthur's ties as they watch the Disney channel, so maybe there's something to it. Arthur's never alone, and he can't say that he minds.

Alice nudges at his leg with her toes to get his attention, during a commercial break. "Do the trick, please. Please?" Alice never gets tired of slight of hand gags, and Arthur's is a simple, but amusing, one. 

It's done with a little red die that Arthur must have picked up from one of the girls' board games and started carrying around with him as a reminder, that this is real, this is his life now. Arthur digs it out of his pocket, displays it in his hand for the girls with a flourish. He waves his other hand over it and the die disappears. "Now you see it and now -- you don't."

Alice laughs as Bonnie props herself up on her knees and says with wonder, "Where is it?!"

Arthur clears his throat, raising an arrogant eyebrow at Eames. "Can you empty your pockets, Mr. Eames?"

Eames laughs good-naturedly and puts on a show of going through the contents of his pockets; a white handkerchief, a battered poker chip, and finally, a red die. The girls cheer for the reveal. 

"How did that get in there?" Bonnie asks seriously, as Arthur takes his die back from Eames. Arthur shrugs mysteriously, and when the cartoon reclaims her attention, he grins as he reaches down to run a hand through the soft tangles of her hair.

Eames chuckles, skimming a warm kiss across Arthur's temple, and whispering, "Clever, Arthur," in his ear, twining his fingers together with Arthur's in the space between them.

It's like this - Arthur had always thought of Los Angeles as his home because all of the puzzle pieces fit; it's where his house was, his friends, and his job. He hadn't known what a home could be until he'd had one here. It's a life, it's his life, and he's living it now, with Eames and the girls. All that trite bullshit about home being where the heart is was true, there's no place on this Earth that he would rather be than with them.

"This is good, don't you think, Arthur?" Alice asks, peering down at the blueprints again, bending over to trace a finger down the line of a dollhouse wall.

Arthur nods, his fingers tightening around Eames', and says without hesitation, "It couldn't be better."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not so subtly based on a plot line from the movie, **The Holiday** , wherein Arthur would be Cameron Diaz and Eames would be Jude Law. And for a long time it was titled in my WIP folder, "domestic, kid fic AU bullshit of epic, disgustingly sappy proportions".
> 
> Seriously, thank fuck it's done.


End file.
